


A Birder's Guide to Tits of the Reach

by wanda von dunayev (wandavon)



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/F, Fantastic Racism (Referenced), Inappropriate Use of Donated Silverware, Markarth (Elder Scrolls), Priestesses, Priesthood of Dibella, Semi-Public Sex, Strip Poker, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:27:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27312613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wandavon/pseuds/wanda%20von%20dunayev
Summary: A week ago Sister Senna lost her most prized possession—a limited edition and highly sought-after birdwatching book—to Sister Orla during a card game. Now she wants it back.Orla is willing to play again.For Kinktober, Days 26, 30: Public Sex, Stripping, Sex Toys.
Relationships: Senna/Orla
Comments: 20
Kudos: 18
Collections: Kinktober 2020





	A Birder's Guide to Tits of the Reach

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thank you to [jammerific](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/jammerific/pseuds/jammerific) for the beta!
> 
> Also posting late for Kinktober because I'm a bad girl.
> 
> If you just want to skip to the smut (no shame, we've all been there), ctrl+f "Senna rose too, gathering up cards and book" is your ticket.

“Sister Orla,” Senna said from across the temple, “you understand that you don’t, in fact, have to handle every page of a book like it’s a rough cut of meat?”

Orla ignored her, pretending to be engrossed in her reading, though from the corners of her eyes she watched Senna. She’d grown adept at hiding her leers, which was something she shared with roughly four-fifths of the men in Markarth. Orla figured it made her about as disgusting as them, too, though given their history it was perhaps more forgivable. 

Now Senna braced herself on her hands by one of the statuettes, a strange, strained gesture that pushed her shoulders back and thrust her hips out so that her spine curved. Like she was waiting for someone to mount her.

Orla wondered if Senna was hoping to draw her attention away from the book. _A vain hope, if she is._ Her beauty had the fresh tenderness of wild roses, and like wild roses it was even more miraculous in Markarth’s rocky grim. But even better was Senna’s nervy discomfort whenever Orla touched the book, her winces and twitches. Gratifying. Tormenting a fellow sister of Dibella wasn’t the nicest thing she could do. But it gave her much pleasure, and wasn’t Dibella a goddess of pleasure, too?

Orla seized a pile of pages—each individual one was thin as tissue—and yanked it over. Senna’s clenched jaw pleased her, as did the way her muscles tensed from her shoulders to her ass.

With difficulty, Orla directed her attention back to the book. The page before her depicted a snowy mountain chickadee, dramatically coloured with its white wings and black throat and red eyes, balanced on one leg over a nest. The painter had been no mere birder but brought something exalted to the subject, something beyond good ink and a steady hand. Orla had come to the temple as a painter herself, though the Markarth sisterhood focused more on Dibella’s patronage of women.

 _And then you just stopped._ The thought of those days, of how she’d once been so happy to sit on the roof and sketch the angles and shadows of the city, made a nauseous feeling curdle in her chest and belly. Her desire and amusement dissolved. She quickly flipped to another page, as if she could outpace the memory and her failure.

Granted, this wasn’t _exactly_ what she’d been expecting when Senna bet a book called _A Birder’s Guide to Tits of the Reach_ during a card game last week, but still. Dibella’s hand was in birds as much as breasts.

“This one looks like Mulush,” Orla said, holding the book up between her thumb and index finger. “Look how beady its eyes are.”

“Please, put that down at once. I’m begging you.”

Actually, Orla had never been one for birdwatching, or pathfinding, or berry-picking, or any of the other cozy activities the locals so enjoyed. So enjoyed except for the ever-present risk of death and dismemberment by the Forsworn. Orla just hated black flies.

“Do you think a snowy mountain chickadee would make for good food?” Orla asked her. “Or do you think it’s too lean? If nothing else, I’d like to make a cloak from their feathers. Such a pretty creature. You’d need hundreds though, probably.”

Senna lidded her eyes and stared into the distance, adopting a long-suffering expression that her face wore often. She tolerated much from the local Nords—Orla had seen that with her own eyes and disliked it, the liberties some of them took because Senna was a Reachwoman and they thought it was their right. 

But at the unmistakable creak of Orla breaking her book’s spine, she could evidently tolerate no more. “You don’t have to fold the pages back so aggressively,” Senna said. “It’ll stay open if you hold it properly.”

“I know how to read a book. But thank you.”

“Really? Because the way you manhandle that one—”

“Really.” Orla snapped another page open.

“—It makes me wonder if you’ve ever seen a book before. I understand that reading is very difficult for you, all those words and letters. But this one has pictures, so you could at least—”

Then, as if the goddess herself had tired of Orla’s game, the lights in the temple dimmed to a bloody red, spluttering and flickering, and just as quickly died.

* * *

It wasn’t the first blackout they’d endured. But it was never any fun, no matter how often it happened. 

Mother Hamal came up from the lower floors a few moments later, a pillar of light from the lantern she carried. “For worshippers,” she said, like anyone was going to risk the pitch-black stairs to the temple after dark. “I’ll bring a few more after the night prayer, and you can prop the doors open until dusk.”

They did, but it was grey and drizzling, and the wind swept in bitter wet gusts that left gleaming spots of rain on the stone six feet deep. The square of dim light wasn’t worth the chill, so Orla just as quickly closed the door.

“So much for that,” Senna said. In the darkness she was a silhouette. A petite and delicate silhouette, with a small frame and high breasts. If she stood she would barely reach Orla’s chin, delicate as a bird herself. Orla, who had always been strong and curvaceous, felt that peculiar pang of longing, lust and envy so closely woven she couldn’t pull one thread loose from the other.

She sat beside Senna on the bench, carefully balancing the lantern so it gave them an equal share of light and didn’t risk toppling. “We should play cards,” she said. “It’s not like we’ll be getting any visitors tonight.”

“I don’t think so.” Senna gave a meaningful glance to the book, now nestled in Orla’s lap. “Last time you robbed me blind.”

Orla couldn’t help but smile at that. “Lady Fortune does enjoy me, I admit.”

Really, Orla would have been willing to throw a round or two if it meant distraction of a friendly bout. The darkness was close and safe, but it was also deeply boring. They hadn’t yet come up with a better distraction than cards, either—well, fucking, but sometimes worshippers _did_ come, and Mother Hamal insisted there be sisters in the main hall to greet them. 

Once or twice every few months the flames would shiver, darken to a rusty red-brown, and give out, coming back on suddenly after days or hours. Last time Calcelmo had investigated at Hamal’s request. He seemed more engrossed in the Dwemer architecture than in the forbidden thrill of his male presence, climbing up into the rafters with surprising agility, poking at the little hanging lights, following their wires up into the stone. 

At one point as he’d hobbled across a support beam Orla had looked up and seen all the glory of the Altmer. The aged and wrinkled glory. 

“Could you make him wear smalls next time?” she whispered to Hamal, who glowered at her and said, “Don’t be so ungrateful, Sister, and lower your eyes.”

Anyway, there was nothing wrong with the temple. The machinery that powered the lighting was just ancient beyond the ages, Calcelmo had told them (standing on the ground now, thank Dibella). It had been in place for thousands of years, and it was incredible that it produced light at all. It would not fail completely for millennia more. 

“But we always play cards,” Orla said now, whining. She was not above whining. “Please, Senna? There’s nothing else to do.”

“Yes, we do always play, and as a result I have nothing left to bet, unless you want me to wager my underthings.”

Orla pretended to consider this, though between the darkness and the rain and Senna’s close, compact form she thought this an excellent suggestion. “You can play for your book back.” 

A hesitation. “I already said, Sister, that—”

“Well, you said it. Lose a round, discard a garment. I’ll bet the book in an early round, even. Promise.”

Senna was quiet for a moment, as if she were debating with herself. A pretence, Orla was sure, because there was precious little else to do when the lanterns failed: impossible to read, or paint, or work on translating her manuscripts. Even playing music was out, since Hamal was still attempting to locate the new sybil and loud noises jolted her and the visiting Mothers from their reveries.

“Oh, have it your way.” Senna heaved a theatrical sigh. “The Goddess knows I can’t spend another day watching you throw it around.”

* * *

After a spirited—and, Orla felt, unnecessarily lengthy—discussion, Senna produced the cards from her own room. Orla never cheated (not with her sisters, at least) but if Senna felt more reassured by it, that was her business and her folly. 

As promised, Hamal returned with another lantern, though when she saw them sitting quietly near the small library nestled into the corner of the main hall she levelled them both with a warning stare.

“I hope you don’t intend to cause any commotion,” she said. “It would look very ill for something to harm our search.”

“We wouldn’t dream of it, Mother Hamal.” This from Senna, who sat straight-backed and had hastily tucked the cards under her robes.

“We recognize the seriousness of the ritual,” Orla said. Senna was nodding at her, all wide-eyed innocence. “We would never take any risks.”

Hamal looked from Senna to her, visibly weighing the likelihood of their honesty—not high—against her desire to be back in the Sanctum—great.

“Fine,” she said at last. “Just keep it down. If I hear a single noise, you’ll be scrubbing the roof with toothbrushes for a month.” 

When she’d left, Senna produced the cards once again. “Cyrodiil rules? Or Daggerfall?”

“Whatever you prefer.” Orla was equally comfortable with both, whereas Senna could always use the help. “It’s your game tonight, my dear.”

“Don’t condescend to me,” Senna said, even as she shuffled the cards like she only vaguely knew what they were. “I’ve got this well under control.”

“I’m sure,” Orla said. She’d already decided she would let Senna win at some point—the book wasn’t worth fighting over, and it obviously had some importance to her. Teasing her a little was funny, but Orla had no desire to cause actual distress. 

While Senna dealt, Orla watched her. She was an agonizingly slow dealer, and normally that would have been vexing, but tonight it seemed to add to the languorous ease the darkness brought. The lamplight made the space feel cavernous, as if she and Senna were alone in some mountain fastness, the last two living souls, and the world outside a memory, a fantasy, a dream. Nothing else seemed to exist save the curve of Senna’s lips, the few tufts of hair the colour of white wine that escaped from beneath her cowl, the smooth line of her throat.

She was so pretty, Senna. All of Dibella’s daughters were beautiful, but Senna had a worldly beauty too, immediate, something that seemed so soft and touchable and human compared to the others. The sort of girl you’d see in the marketplace and look back at, not sure if you’d really perceived or just imagined her loveliness. 

“Alright,” Senna said when she’d finally finished her endless, unhandy dealing and they’d both looked at their cards. “First round. I’ll bet my hood on this. And you?”

Orla’s cards were not spectacular: staves seven through nine, then a two of blades and a heart-princess. The staves might suffice, but Senna was looking unusually stone-faced, which itself was a tell. She had a good hand. “I’ll match and bet mine, too.”

Senna drew back as if Orla had taken a swing at her. “I thought you said you’d be betting the book!”

“I said I would bet the book _early_ , and I will. I promise. But not in the first round.”

“Oh, very well.” Senna looked down at her hand and grumbled something that sounded like, “Bartering fishwife.” She dealt the next set of cards with no great deftness, staring into Orla’s eyes while Orla gazed back, stone-faced. “Pass or play?”

Her hand had not been improved. “Pass,” Orla said, and Senna made a non-committal noise. 

“I’ll pass too,” Senna said. A mistake. Orla’s expression was evidently harder to read than hers.

Sure enough, in the next round Orla picked up another stave—which was enough to make her question Senna’s shuffling abilities. When they bet, Senna’s hand was good, but not good enough.

“It’s just a cap,” Orla said as Senna removed it. Her hair was tangled from being caught under the hood all day, but despite that it shone like molten silver, a blonde so fair it was almost white. Her eyebrows were the same shade, and even her eyelashes, though Orla knew she normally painted those black to meet with worshippers.

That colour was one Orla recognized as particular to the Reachmen. Elven heritage or something. Alien, and gorgeous. 

“You better bet that book next round,” Senna said, raking a hand through her bangs and just mussing them further. “It’s getting cool in here and I don’t want to spend hours playing in my underwear.”

Orla certainly wouldn’t have minded that. She couldn’t stop tracing the supple curves of Senna’s waist and thighs and breasts with her eyes. “Don’t tempt me when you look so nice in them.” 

Was it just her, or did Senna blush? Hard to tell. The lantern wasn’t doing much to light the room.

Orla did bet the book the next round, anyway, just to humour her and also because her new hand was fairly good. She kept her face impassive, though, even when spots of colour appeared on Senna’s cheeks and throat. _Displeasure,_ Orla thought _._ Senna bet the sash of her robes.

“I think that should properly be counted as cheating,” Orla said. “The sash is hardly a garment.” They hadn’t stipulated any rules, and she’d have done the same, but it felt like violating the game’s spirit, like Senna was playing her for a fool.

“Shall I bet my socks, then? One at a time.”

“Absolutely not. Save that for someone who wants them.” Some of the mercenaries would probably have paid a pretty penny, but Orla was not of such inclinations.

They played. Senna lost. They played again. Senna lost again. 

* * *

By the time Senna finally won her bird book she had, in fact, gotten down to her smallclothes. She didn’t stand to strip off her robe, just slipped it over her shoulders and lifted her hips a little to slide it out under her. Her gestures were quick, as if she were self-conscious. Her skin had goosebumped in the temple's cool and Orla wanted to run her hands over it, measure with her fingers how far down the goosebumps went. 

It was too dark to see, but she wondered if the cold had hardened Senna’s nipples, too.

Orla could have pushed it and stripped her to the skin, but that was too far, she felt. If Senna wanted to be naked, she could get naked on her own. Even in her underwear she looked oddly soft, vulnerable amidst all that rock and bronze, some small warm animal lost in a wasteland. A part of Orla reared up at that thought, protective, snarling, wanting to tuck Senna away. To guard her. 

_She’s more than capable of protecting herself_ — _and you, too. She doesn’t need you._

Senna was remarkably bad at the game. It made for tedious play, but it was endearing, too. Her face was so earnest, so open, so easily read. After all the roles that Orla had had to play as a priestess, a priestess in the filth of Markarth no less, it amazed her to find someone who had grown up in the Stone City without being ground down by it. Somehow, Senna remained unscathed.

Senna had set the book by her hand and was stroking the cover, looking down at it with visible joy. Visible pleasure, Orla thought, watching her, feeling oddly raw. Like someone had scraped her skin with a file. 

Senna never grew tired. She vibrated with life, had an energy at once sensual and fey. When she tucked her foot under her bottom, the inside of her thigh gleamed as soft and tempting as velvet.

“You have your book back,” Orla said, “and I think I’ve shown my superiority. Shall we call it a night?”

Senna’s attention snapped away from her book, and she looked Orla up and down, eyebrows raised in dismay. “But you’re still clothed! That hardly seems fair.”

Orla pursed her lips. It was an innocent enough remark, if teasing. But it was not _completely_ innocent. “Disappointed?” she said. “If you want more of a show, you need only say it.”

Senna rolled her eyes. But lamplight or no, she was definitely blushing. “Orla, you’re such a reprobate. You have only one thing on your mind.”

That was true. The accusation struck her as a little unfair, though. _We are all the faithful of the Lady of Refined Pleasures._

Orla had discarded her own hood in an earlier round, and her sash, and she held her gown together with her hands. She took her time standing, making a show of rolling her neck so that her hair spilled over each shoulder and across her face. Just as quickly she gripped the sides of her robe and rearranged them, folding them back over the other, offering a glimpse of her skin beneath. A dirty trick, not worthy of Senna, but not an ineffective one.

Senna rose too, gathering up cards and book. Her clothes were on the table—folded neatly, Orla noticed. She hadn’t paid much attention to that as they played, but she found it endearing, the thought that Senna had been as focused on tidying her removed garments as on her undress. That orderliness, that organization, so strange in such a playful woman.

“My dear Orla,” Senna said as she was dressing, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to seduce me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Orla said. She cut her darkest tone, the one that made men and women alike look at her sideways, breathe a little quicker, step closer. “You know how restrained I am.”

Senna glanced over her shoulder with a half-smile. They had played this game before—often, in fact. Orla always enjoyed it, always liked it because Senna never asked awkward questions. She never pushed Orla in any direction.

Senna was as slow about her dressing as she’d been about her dealing. Her shoulders were smooth and supple, her skin like bronze. She covered herself in the robe, pulling her hair out from the neckline, shaking it loose in gleaming waves. When she cinched the robe closed with her sash, it emphasized the smallness of her waist, the delicacy of her frame.

Orla had been watching. She realized she’d been watching and looked away. But it was too late. She, too, had been had.

“Join me downstairs?” Orla said. No point in hiding her interest.

Senna drew back a little, tapping her lip with a nail. “Ah, but the worshippers!”

There would be no worshippers coming. The hour must have been fairly late, though with everything so dark they wouldn’t have been able to see down into Riverside to check the water-clock. And the rain was still audible outside, a deafening tinny noise on the roof.

“I think it’s better if we stay.” Senna came around the table, ghosting her hand over the book, her nails just barely scratching at the cover. She took such care of her nails—she’d torn Orla’s back to ribbons with them more than once. And she kept them long, which was a message, just as it was a message that Orla kept hers short. “Just in case.”

“Really?” The idea had its appeal. The illicitness of it, the element of risk, however low. And it seemed somehow delicious to her, that they should do the thing everyone in the city thought they did: fucking in the doorway, summoning the goddess through earthier means. “Alright. I find your argument compelling.”

“ _Argument_.” Senna snorted. But she was closer now, her hood still off, her silver hair all in disarray, her lips parted. She had a small mouth, stubborn some would have called it. Small but full and coloured as if she’d been eating raspberries. 

Orla brought a hand to her chin, traced the outline of her lips with a fingertip. When Senna brought her own hand up to cover hers, brushing Orla’s knuckles, she felt herself smile. 

“Happy you got your book back?” she asked.

“Very happy.” Senna’s fingers danced over her own, a touch that was a reward, a promise, a taunt. But then, in a more sombre tone, she said, “It was a gift from my brother.”

 _A brother_. Orla knew not to ask. There were too many dark paths that converged in all their pasts. Too many secrets, too many things she dared not know. To live as they did—as sisters, as friends, as lovers—in a place like the Reach they had to commit to a mutual ignorance of one another. There was no alternative.

Instead she gently pulled her hand from Senna’s, tracing the path from her mouth to her chin to her throat, to the hollow at the base of it, and then lower. She parted the triangular neck of Senna’s robe, and ran her finger between her breasts, the curve of them just barely visible above her breastband.

“You wasted your time dressing,” Orla said. Her hand was on Senna’s belly, toying with her navel using the same gestures she’d have used elsewhere, soaking up the warmth of her skin like it was sun-heated stone. “Do I have to beat you at cards again to get you out of these?”

Senna laughed. She was quick disrobing, and she didn’t bother to fold anything, tossing the robe and sash over the table behind them. Then she unwound her breastband with slow, languorous hands. Orla contemplated offering help, but she liked her current position: apart, watching like it was a show for her benefit. Maybe it was. 

When Senna at last tugged the breastband loose her breasts dropped free, perfect as if they’d been fitted to Orla’s hands, her nipples high and pointed in the cold. A needy throb swept through Orla’s cunt, and she closed the distance between them in two strides, gripping the back of Senna’s neck, twisting her hair into a thick knot. The difference in their heights amazed her, as it always did. Orla was so much taller, Senna so lightly built but so strong. 

For a moment Orla thought she might actually kiss Senna tonight—she’d parted her lips a little, her eyes filled with darkness, her breath already coming hard—but the idea felt like suffocating. It was a romantic fool’s thought.

“You won’t undress?” Senna asked.

“No.” She kissed Senna’s jaw, then her throat. As close as she could come. “I feel that I owe you something for your catastrophic losses.”

“Oh, hardly catastrophic.” Senna’s fingers were making their way into Orla’s own robes, her touch a soothing counterpoint to the blaze of Orla’s skin. Senna traced a path on her thighs, at the seam where her undergarments met the joint of her hips, the smallest gap there. 

Her body was aching in reaction, her thighs tensing and untensing, a burning wet heat between her legs. She wanted to reach down and rub her clit, or rub Senna’s hand against her, grind until she came apart and she didn’t have to think about herself anymore—think about the ways she was a disappointment and a failure, the things she couldn’t do.

Orla pulled away again, though it was difficult with Senna so close to her. Senna was yielding: waist, hipbone, thighs all the same, flawless and downy. Untouched by any harm or time. Orla was only a little older, but her body was starting to slacken. A betrayal, she felt, as much as she knew the Goddess would bless her age as she had Orla’s youth. 

In the dark, the temple was cool. Senna’s nipples were like pebbles, hard pale points, and bumps rose again on her skin where Orla’s hands trailed, finding their path, just as she’d wanted to. 

Senna shivered when Orla ran a finger over her belly once more, drifting lower to caress the shining soft hair.

“Your hands are cold,” she said in response to Orla’s look.

“So warm them up.” She slid one hand down between them, parting Senna’s lower lips, feeling the answering wet and warmth there. She teased Senna’s entrance with a finger, just lightly caressing, dipping in and drawing back, and was gratified by the long, slow inhale Senna took. She was getting the slack-jawed, dazed look on her face that Orla loved so well.

She worked a finger into Senna, pumping slowly, not picking up speed even as Senna gripped her wrist and tried to force her to quicken her pace. Her own body seemed to blaze in response, a lean, hard yearning that almost hurt. The fires of lust, as the uncreative skalds always called it.

It felt so good to be inside her, to feel her tremble and shudder and cling to Orla’s fingers, to know that she could do this, that she could make this beautiful woman pant and sag. She slid a second finger inside her, thrusting slightly faster, rubbing Senna’s clit with her other hand. It _was_ a fire, Orla thought, her fingers warm and sticky, Senna’s cunt clinging to them with each slow motion, and she gasping, gasping as if Orla were driving her with a whip. It was a blaze that consumed nothing and was never exhausted.

Senna lifted her head, her hair falling away from her face. She was flushed and grinning. “You know, we should use that _thing_.”

That brought Orla up short. _‘_ That _thing_ ’ was some sort of silver citrus reamer, not pointed like the ones she’d seen before but with a bulbous, knobbed head. It had been part of a set of silverware Raerek donated to the temple the previous season. Orla had tried very hard not to laugh at that _thing_ when he dropped the set off, even though it looked completely indecent. “Do you think we juice a lot of… fruits?” she’d asked Raerek in her sweetest voice, and he’d turned scarlet and nearly tripped on the stairs heading down.

“That’s the best idea you’ve ever had,” Orla said. Senna’s cunt gripped her fingers so tightly she could only pull out little by little, and the whine Senna gave in response made her feel like all the blood had left her head. 

She stumbled over to the display case where they kept the silverware, each step a torture because she was so wet it hurt. And of course, of _course_ she wasn’t paying attention to where she went, so she tripped on a chair on the way and crashed down. She landed in a tangle of robes and limbs and wood, and worst of all the impact seemed to have shaken the floor, which should not have been possible given it was literally part of the mountain.

Fortunately, Hamal did not come tearing up to kill them both, and after a few moments of silence Orla stood and lurched towards the display, her hands shaking as she unlocked it, sorting through what seemed like twelve-hundred different plates and bowls and forks and candlestick holders and why the fuck did they have so much silverware until finally, finally she’d seized that _thing,_ lifting it in her triumphant hands.

It was elegant, smoothed at both ends, though odd protuberances covered the juicing bit. Silver, too, which was ridiculous, but long and hard. It would serve.

Senna had sat up, and she laughed when Orla brandished the silver juicer, tucking one foot under her. Her cunt shone pink and puffy, the silvery hair soaked. When she was close enough to touch Orla couldn’t resist running two fingers upwards between her lips, enjoying the feel of her sopping and pliant.

She gently raised Senna’s thigh, bracing her around the waist with her other arm. Instead of using the knobbed end—which looked terrifying, like a torture device—she turned the _thing_ around to position the long, smooth handle against Senna’s cunt.

“Really?” Senna sounded like she was trying not to laugh again, though when Orla stroked her with the handle she whimpered. “The good silverware? Dear Orla, what will people say?”

“This is Markarth.” Orla wrapped her fingers around the handle further up, warming it a little more; it had been colder to the touch than she realised. “It’s all good silverware. We only have seven other sets.”

“May as well put it to use,” Senna said. She was smiling still, but her pupils were huge, her eyes glittering as if she were fevered. “I’m sure the donor wouldn’t mind.”

Orla brushed the blunted head again across Senna’s pubic hair, the lightest touch, still holding her up. She traced the outlines of her lower lips, and Senna shifted, sighed, spread her legs a little further. When Orla drew a line upwards through the slick wetness, Senna wriggled.

Orla held her hips steady with one hand. “Eager?”

“You know I am.” She leaned back against the table, lifted her other leg. It occurred to Orla that if they did have a worshipper they would be treated to the same view as her: Senna seated on the main table, her thighs spread, gleaming wet, and her fellow worshipper between them, caressing her, fingers inside of her cunt, penetrating her with a fucking juicer.

It would be, she thought, the thing half the city dreamed of to console themselves during their long, cold, lonely nights on stone beds. Minus the kitchen implement. Maybe.

With one hand she stroked Senna’s clit, soothing her with the touch, while with the other she gently slid the tip of the handle inside her. It reminded her, irresistibly, of her youth and the various things she had tried fucking. Thank Dibella she had gotten into the temple before she could do herself any real damage.

Senna seemed occupied with other thoughts. She flinched and squirmed, gasping. “It’s _really_ cold!” 

“I can stop,” Orla said, halting the motion. “Just say it.”

“No, I didn’t tell you to stop.” Senna was biting her lip, eyes big and glassy. Orla resumed the motion with her free hand, working the handle in inch by inch and stroking her with the other. She watched in fascination as Senna took it, as her face flickered and changed and her jaw sagged. Goddess of women, indeed. 

On an impulse she bent over, lowered her mouth to Senna’s throat, the place where her pulse throbbed and jumped. She bit it, just the merest scratching of her teeth, feeling the vibration of Senna’s inhale. Beneath her, below them, Senna’s hips were moving of their own accord, driving against the handle and against Orla’s fingers. 

The motion made lewd wet noises, and her own cunt felt slick, swollen; her pulse between her legs was just marginally slower than Senna’s as Orla kissed and nibbled her neck. They shifted a little with each thrust Orla gave, pressing Senna flat against the table, Orla nearly on top of her, between her legs, pinning her in place.

Senna’s hands were in her hair, pulling, directing. If she’d had another hand of her own she would have captured Senna’s wrists above her, trapping her. She thought, fleetingly, of some local depictions she’d seen showing Dibella as a many-limbed creature part Reachwoman and part spider. No doubt that came in handy. _Oh, to be a goddess._

Senna’s breath was coming hard, in little gasps, and though Orla’s fingers were cramping where she stroked Senna’s clit, she certainly wasn’t going to stop. “Oh, gods. Oh, Orla.” She spoke into Orla’s hair, her voice reedy. “Please. I need more.”

Orla kissed her way down Senna’s neck, tracing her way over the hollow at the base of her throat, down further to the swell of her breasts. She used her tongue to outline one of Senna’s nipples, the lightest pressure.

Senna’s answering groan was gratifying. Also much too loud. “You have got to be quiet,” Orla said, lifting her head, “or Hamal is going to come up and murder us both.”

Senna bit her lip. “I’m sorry. Of course. Don’t—don’t stop.”

“Just keep it down,” Orla said, but she obeyed. Her wrists were getting tired, too, and with the angle the table’s edge was biting into her forearms, but the taste of Senna’s skin, the noise of her gasps and the filthy wet sound of fucking her made all that worth it. So did the twitches Senna gave as Orla rode her, pressing her to the brink, struggling not to let her touches flag.

“Yes,” Senna hissed in her ear. “Yes, almost there. That’s good.” She repeated that a few times, her voice growing lower, rougher, her motions jerky, until her entire body tensed. Orla was distantly afraid she’d make some noise that would get them in deep shit, but only distantly. The rest of her was in the instant, watching Senna’s hips shift against the table, watching her come undone, watching the muscles of her thighs ripple and her breasts rise, her nipples wet and tight.

Afterwards, still breathing hard, Senna propped herself up on her elbows. Orla extricated the handle, noticing with a wince that the stupid protrusions had pressed into her hand, leaving deep indentations. She felt dizzy, sore as if Senna had beaten her. The slickness against her smallclothes was unpleasant now; they were wet through.

Senna gazed at her, eyes warm. Her hands were on Orla’s waist, at the part of her robes. The robes she had not taken off, though they’d come mostly open. “Shall I…?” Senna asked.

She would never allow Senna to touch her in the same way. The thought of it was too much, too intimate. It made her feel like taking off a layer of her skin.

“No,” she said. Senna’s look of disappointment stung and filled her with shame. “I’m sorry, I just—I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize.” Senna squeezed her waist, just the lightest pressure, but her skin warmed and tingled in response. Orla wanted to hug her, and also to straddle her and fuck her senseless.

 _Oh, do it. Just hug her, you closed-off freak. You fucked her with the_ thing _._ So Orla gave into the feeling, wrapping her arms around Senna, holding her close. 

“Thanks,” she said into Senna’s very tousled hair. “Thanks, Senna.”

After a startled moment, Senna hugged her back. “It was, quite literally, my pleasure.”

* * *

It was a stupid weakness, but Orla followed Senna into her bed in the living quarters of the temple. In the darkness it was hard to pick out the features of her room, but Orla had been in often enough that she could call it to mind: the agenda that recorded all of their meetings and sermons and marriage counselling sessions, the books organized first by subject and then by author, pressed flowers from Senna’s home village in the southwest.

Orla sometimes found being deep in the rock unbearable, like being buried alive, the unimaginable weight of the mountain pressing down until she couldn’t breathe. But like this, under the quilts, snuggled together, they transmuted the surrounding mass of the city. With the blankets’ weight, and with Senna’s warmth alongside her, Orla had the sense of being safe and confined. _Back in the womb_. She smiled.

Her thoughts kept returning to the snowy mountain chickadee with its long, blade-like wings, its teetering legs. She had never seen one before—they probably lived in the highlands, nearer to the western border. But an image of it seemed to stay with her.

It had been a very long time since she’d broken out her sketchbook and crayons. She caught herself wondering if hers had dried out and would need to be replaced, or if she could make do with them as they were.

“That book,” Orla said into Senna’s neck, trying to sound casual, “do you think that I could look at it sometime? I was struck by how incredible the drawings are. I think I might want to try drawing in the style of a few.”

Senna was quiet for a moment. “Of course you can. Just… treat it a little more gently, alright?”

“I’m sorry. I promise. I know it’s important to you.”

Senna rolled over onto her back and gave a sleepy, knowing grin. “I’m glad I could inspire you, even indirectly.”

She said it so innocently, with such knowing. Knowing that she did inspire Orla, and that Orla, for all her distance and her pretences, was weak for her. 

“I do love tits of the Reach,” Orla said, giving one of Senna’s a squeeze, and was rewarded with a laugh.

* * *

The next day Calcelmo came into the temple to investigate the lights and see if he could coax them back to work. He puttered around looking purposeful, scrutinizing various creases in the rock, peering under tables and in doorways. 

When he climbed up on the library table Orla knew well enough not to watch. Instead, she focused on polishing one of the statuettes of Dibella, the manifestation of Dibella Generator, the artist and muse both. She figured if she was going to start sketching again, getting on Dibella’s good side was not a bad idea. 

So she was surprised when she heard a scuffle, as if Calcelmo were struggling to regain his footing, and his mumbled, “Shit!”

When she looked he had knelt, and he was holding something ridged and silver. Some _thing_ they’d left on the table. The juicer.

“Oh, my gracious,” he said, handing it to Orla when she hurried over. “I need to watch where I’m going. I could have broken my neck. Terribly sorry, Sister.”

“Of course, Calcelmo,” Orla said. She kept her face neutral and tucked the juicer back into her robes, making a mental note to wash it and the tabletop before something worse happened. “But please watch your language in the temple. This is a holy place, after all.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Critical context to this fic: every single year Raerek donates a set of silver flatware and utensils to the temple and immediately forgets he did, and the priestesses have no idea what to do with it all. Except for Orla. An absolute visionary.
> 
> I'm on social media to talk TES and/or Markarth wives at [Reddit](https://www.reddit.com/user/thinmancaviar/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/wanda_pourtales).


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